With these shreds They vented their complainings, which being answered And a petition granted them, a strange one, To break the heart of generosity, And make bold power look pale, they threw their caps As they would hang them on the horns o' th' moon, Shouting their emulation.

Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench; I love her ten times more than e'er I did: O, how I long to have some chat with her!

I am a kind of burr; I shall stick.

Is she kind as she is fair?

Patch up thine old body for heaven.

Do as the heavens have done, forget your evil; With them forgive yourself.

The ides of March are come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar; but not gone.